


A piece, snatched from capture, and retired

by DefinitelyNotLazav



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefinitelyNotLazav/pseuds/DefinitelyNotLazav
Summary: Vienna is never safe, these days. The Studious Saboteur and the Ailing Propagandist have their last, brief rendezvous. A capture becomes an accidental end.
Kudos: 7





	A piece, snatched from capture, and retired

Downstairs, the storefront bell rang gently. The Studious Saboteur got up from their desk and slid the red-bound file from one of the drawers. The Ailing Propagandist was right on time.

The single window in the hallway let in the last vestiges of moonlight as the Saboteur exited their sanctum, nestled in a sunless corner of the building's second floor. The other two residents were asleep, blissfully unaware- until the Propagandist stomped, uncharacteristically mammoth-like, up the stairs. The bell jangled downstairs, but it went unaccompanied by the sound of the door opening. Harsh thumping began.

The Saboteur offered the Propagandist an arm to lean upon as he wheezed and hacked. "You… You must go. I'm blown. They have my scent now." He pushed the red folder the Saboteur proffered back into their chest with his palm. "You'll need to find someone else who can make use of that."

"But, sir, you were so close, how did they root you out?" More slamming against the door, and the rattling of the bell.

The Propagandist let go of their arm and began trudging towards their room. "I suspect a mole, placed by… I'm not sure. Not London. Not the French, either, I think. But they know I'm here." He straightened himself, resting against the desk. "You'll need to go. They think this is my safehouse, now. Terribly sorry to displace you, but it was that or risk them finding you while I ran."

"Sir, I…" The Saboteur was speechless for key moments. They tucked the folder inside their shirt. The splintering of the door frame below was muffled by the thick carpet of the office; neither heard it. "Where do I go? What will happen to you?"

The Propagandist sighed. "What happens to us all, sooner or later." He slumped; his sprint had ravaged his frail frame. "You need to lie low at least a week, get a ticket to Naples. Find a zailing vessel that flies the signal. The doubled flags, not the triple; compromised last night." He began to dig about in one of the sparse boxes that were the only other furniture beside the desk, and held out a coil of rope to them.

They took it gingerly. They turned towards the door, but hesitated. They ran back towards the Propagandist and embraced him, a little tightly. A key moment passed.

"You'll want to be going," he whispered. "They'll be up any second." He patted their back, and slipped something inside their coat pocket. They felt for it as they pulled away; something flaky, like paper crisped by proximity to fire. They slipped it deeper into the pocket. Something to examine later, something dangerous.

"Someday... Remember me, in the dark, will you?" asked the Propagandist.

They nodded affirmation, too choked to speak. Another nod farewell. The Saboteur headed to the hall window and cracked it open. They had only a few moments in which to slip out the window unnoticed as the gang of toughs smashed the door from its frame. The bell pealed out its last as it flew from its hook to bounce beneath the shop counter.

The Propagandist slid the window shut after watching the Saboteur escape into the dimmed alleyways of Vienna. He retrieved a matchbook from his suit as he reentered the office, the sounds of footsteps pummeling the bottom most stairs.

When they found him, he sat in the simple chair, surrounded by crates of sundries, and a desk, every drawer crackling, smoke trickling through the cracks. They overpowered him quickly, dragging him roughly down the stairs and into the street. The few passerby at that hour of morning averted their gazes from the half dozen burly mercenaries.

"Back to Heidi for questioning," barked their leader, in what was decidedly German. Ah. The group began a brisk march through the brightening streets.

Dangling between two of the thugs, wrists and ankles bound, the Propagandist stared into the sky. The pre-dawn was gone; luminous lumps of cloud glowed pink and red as the morning began to claim its dominion. Despite his wounds, despite his impending end, he chuckled ever so softly to himself. Some Liberationist, to love that sight so well. He'd missed it so, for forty odd years. He would never have admitted it to his colleagues below, but once, he had told the Saboteur, the night after their third successful riot-rousing. He sighed, internally. 

The clouds' glow began to change as his eyes began to close themselves, the efforts of the night before and the beating pressing him towards unconsciousness. Just as he was about to slip into oblivion, the light became blinding, and he couldn't help but shake them open as the Sun crested the rooftops.

A key moment, before he began laughing, unreservedly, as the toughs looked down with shock.

Fitting, he thought, to die to the greatest foe of all. His form dissolving, his final moments upon him, he closed his eyes. The sun seared through his eyelids, the glow inescapable.

Someday-, went his final thought. He never completed it. That light, so beautiful, burned it away.


End file.
